“The influenza?’ said Huber Davis.
“It can be nothing else. High temperature, and you say he had chills yesterday; much pain, everything according to the ritual. I am sorry, Mynheer Davis; his room had better be quarantined, of course.”
“You think it is dangerous?”
“No. The danger, of course, lies in the pneumonia afterward. We must wait and see?”
After this, events moved fast. At noon the doctor arrived again, in response to a hurried message from Huber Davis. An hour later the two men sat in the study of Davis.
“But, Brossot,” said the latter, staring at the doctor, “what the devil was it, then? You say there was no pneumenia—”
The honest Dutchman shook his head. “Mynheer, upon my word of honor, I don’t know! I shall call it heart-failure; that’s what we all say, you know, to conceal our ignorance. The Chinese would say that he had swallowed gold, another polite way of saying the same thing. If you want an autopsy—”
Huber Davis rose, paced up and down the room, his brow furrowed.
“That’s not half bad, that Chinese saying,” he muttered. “No, Brossot, no autopsy. His wife arrives this afternoon, you know; my sister Ruth. Swallowed gold, did he? I believe it’s the truth, at that!”
But he never thought again about the red grease-paint on those candles, and he did not know anything about Li Mow Gee having a little laboratory—in the Chinese style—opening off his apartments. Nobody knew about that laboratory, except Li Mow Gee; and Mr. Li never boasted of his methods.